What if death was just a gal at the keyboard with cold fingers?  She knows she has a job to do, and geez, her fingers are cold tapping the keys programming the end of life for those on the slate.  Perhaps everyone already has a timetable they arranged before they got here, and she’s just doing her job making sure the docket gets attention and duties are fulfilled.

Yeah, what if death is just a paralegal trying to the get attorney to the next action.  “Time for another life, we have a deadline here, can you sign the contract please?!”

Actually, I think it is more that we just get a bit tired of these bodies, or acted out the drama we chose, or set up the dominos just so–ready to topple in an neverending one after one after the other, mother-daughter-mother-daughter-sister-brother-father-son down the line.

Like we all hold hands across the sweet blue-green world, across the galaxy and sing.